


Recon(ciliation)

by TheGriefPolice



Series: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: Little Detectives [4]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Accidents, Age Play, Alternate Universe, Classifications, Cute Sherlock, Diapers, Dom!Mycroft, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, John-centric, Littles Are Known, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Sick Fic, alternate universe - classifications, alternate universe - littles are known, caregiver!greg, little!john, little!sherlock, mentions of alcohol abuse by side character, mentions of child abuse, pull-ups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25553824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGriefPolice/pseuds/TheGriefPolice
Summary: It’d been a month since John was dropped off at Baker Street after his weekend with Mycroft and Greg and John was doing just fine, thank you very much. No one was asking questions, no one was babying him, and it almost seemed as if that weekend had never happened at all. And John was happy with it that way.That is... Until he gets sick and Sherlock gets hurt and John finds out that all might not be as it seems.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: Little Detectives [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1175357
Comments: 34
Kudos: 263





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Boom! We’re back at it fam! After all that angst at the ending of the last story, I figured it was time for a fix-it! Again, not sure how long this will be, but probs around three chapters. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

John was fine. Finer than fine. Fine-tastic. Fine-taculer. Fine... whatever else. He was not feeling incredibly sick and wishing he was in bed because standing up made him dizzy. He was not missing his rabbit and blanket that were stuffed into a shoe box in the back of his closet. He was not hoping he could go to Mycroft and Greg’s and stay with them for a while. Because he was not Little and he didn’t need any of those things. 

And because he was none of those things, he was out in the field, working on the latest case with Sherlock—some mystery assassin—and doing. Just. Fine. 

“John!” Sherlock called, pulling John out of his thoughts. “What do you see?”

John sighed and walked over to Sherlock, trying his best to ignore the line of blood on the floor where the body had been before the coroners took it away. He glanced over the the sene, looking for anything that might stand out. John wasn’t sure if it was his dulled—definitely not sick—brain or simply the state of the alleyway, but it all looked pretty cut-and-dry to him. Trash lining the ground, wallet missing, single bullet to the chest. A mugging gone wrong. Of course, Sherlock saw something else and that meant he was waiting for John to reinforce his idea.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. It looks like a mugging.” John sighed, turning to his friend.

Sherlock tisked, spinning on the ball of his right foot. “But there is something that even you must have noticed, but are not seeing.”

John stared at Sherlock in confusion. He couldn’t tell if it was just his current state or if Sherlock was just spouting nonsense, but his head couldn’t wrap around it either way.

“Follow me!” Sherlock demanded, and—like the crazy man he was—John followed. 

A block and a half away, Sherlock managed to find the man’s wallet with cards and cash still inside and untouched. Because of course Sherlock was right. 

“There is a reason this killer is hunting down these men, I just haven’t figured it out.” Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

John let out a sigh and ran a hand across his forehead. He felt like he was freezing, even in his long sleeve and jumper, but his hand came away covered in sweat. He quickly wiped his palm on his trousers and tried his best to disguise the movement as warming up his hands. Not that Sherlock would have noticed either way with how deep he was into the case, but better to be safe than sorry.

“Sherlock! John!” Greg yelled from the other side of the alleyway they’d walked into. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Playing unicorns.” Sherlock deadpanned, looking over at Greg. “What do you think we’re doing.”

Greg sighed and rolled his eyes, walking back towards the original crime scene with his arms up and mumbling, “I don’t even know why I try.”

John stood for a few dizzy minutes, eyes closing to stop the street lams from burning a hole into the back of his head. It was nothing more than a headache, nothing he couldn’t handle, but his stomach turned at the thought of having to face the lights again.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock chanted, taking off back down the alleyway and leaving John to find his own way.

John groaned, but slowly dragged his feet back to the entrance of the alley. Sherlock was walking down the road and back to the original scene, a giddy smile on his face. John rubbed at his temples as he started the long trek up the road.

“It’s an officer!” Sherlock shouted, gaining the attention of everyone at the scene as he ran up the Greg. “It’s a police officer!”

Had John’s head not been so cloudy, so muddled, so pained, he would have noticed the man that step out of the line of officers and pulled his gun. John might have been able to stop the man had his reflexes been at full-alert. Might have been able to scream out had his eyes and brain been on the same wavelength. But he was none of those things, and by the time John had seen the man take aim, a shot was ringing through the air.

The scene broke out into chaos, officers running to various spots of cover for a tactical advantage. John was tackled by a sizable officer and pushed off the sidewalk, into the street, and behind a car. John couldn’t get his brain to process all of the sounds—the screaming, the alarms, the shots—and he was pretty sure his eyes had given up on seeing anything other than a small circle in front of his face. It was as if the world was moving in slow motion.

Suddenly, a hand was on his shoulder, another grabbing his left hand and yanking John to his feet. His knees felt like they were ready to collapse under his weight, but they weren’t given the chance as he was lifted into a firemen’s hold and carried down the street. He was placed down and hands started reaching around him.

“John? Are you okay? We’re you hurt?” Greg asked, poking around John’s shirt and jacket as if looking for something.

“‘M fine.” John said, lifting his head and pushing Greg’s hands away. He looked up and took in the scene around him and registered that they must have gotten the shooter because no one was running around anymore.

“Sherlock?” John asked, looking for his flatmate. 

“Right here,” Sherlock said, followed by a hissing sound. John looked up and saw Greg was pulling at Sherlock’s jacket, jerking his arm out and revealing a bleeding gash. “It’s fine. Just a graze.”

“You were shot, Sherlock!” Greg said, turning his head around the wound as if taking in the damage. “We need to get this looked at.”

“Noooo!” Sherlock whinnied, trying to pull away from Greg. “Not going to a hospital!”

John knew that voice—knew it meant Sherlock had dropped—and started to feel himself falling. He took in a large breath of air and held it until his head hurt and then some. When the feeling resided, he tuned back in to the debate going on in front of him. Or tried to. Instead, all he could think about was the last time he had dropped around Greg.

It had been almost a month ago. No one had called, not a single question had been asked, nothing. It was almost as if that weekend had never happened. No one treated him differently, and he had been simultaneously overjoyed and disappointed. Overjoyed over the situation have zero effect on his life, but disappointed because it meant that he was easy to forget. Easy to live without. Unimportant. He’d gone home, he’d stuffed his Little things into the far reaches of his closet , and then he’d moved on with his life. 

Only he hadn’t. Because he missed Greg and Mycroft and Little Sherlock. He missed the unadulterated love they expressed so openly. He’d only been with them four days, but they had pulled out a side of him he never wanted to see the light of day. And now that it’d been out once, it didn’t want to go away. It couldn’t be pressed into submission or forgotten. It was ever-present, begging him to call Greg or Mycroft and ask for forgiveness. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t face the people who had forgotten him so easily. The people that already had enough trouble on their plates. 

“John?” Greg’s voice saw soft as he look upon John questioningly. 

John knew that voice, that one full of concern and care. He’d gotten so used to it over that single weekend, so attached to the emotions behind it, that he let out a soft whimper. 

“Hey, baby, it’s okay. You’re safe.” Greg’s hand was running through John’s hair as he shushed him. “Mycroft will be here soon and we will get everything sorted at home. 

“No hospital?” Sherlock asked, tears evident in his voice. 

“We’ll have My look at it and see what he says, okay?” Greg shifted into the ground, pulling John against his side. 

John’s adult side knew that he should get up, get a cab, and go home before anything more could happen. But Little John craves the attention and care, even in this simple gesture, and had no will to let go. He didn’t feel good and he didn’t want to move.

Greg’s hand ran through John’s hair several times before suddenly stopping. John could feel the Caregiver’s hand on his forehead for a moment before Greg shifted John into a sitting position.

“John, are you sick?” Greg asked.

John’s eyes fell to the paved path under their feet, not wanting to answer the question.

“I need you to be truthful with me.” Greg said, his voice taking in a serious tone that told John he better listen. “Are you sick?”

John looked up, instantly regretting it when his eyes met Greg’s because tears started falling down his face and he didn’t know how to stop them. 

Greg pulled the Little in for a hug, kissing the top of his head as he said, “Why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped?”

John shook his head with a sniffle. “Don’ like me.”

“Don’t like you? John, we love you. Dearly.” Greg pulled back and tried to catch John’s eyes, but the Little wouldn’t let him. “You’re one of my Littles, how could I not like you?”

John just shook his head, stuck between headspaces and feeling worse by the second. How could they say that when no one asked him how he was, or if he was okay? That wasn’t care or love—they’d forgotten him! 

Suddenly he was being lifted off the ground and braced on someone’s hip. John must have been dozing, even in his distress, because he didn’t remember Mycroft arriving or anything that happened before. 

“I don’t think he’ll need stitches, but a few butterflies wouldn’t hurt. So long as we keep it clean, he should be okay.” Mycroft said quietly, bouncing John a few times.

Sherlock gave a half-hearted cheer and then John could feel Mycroft walking. He was dizzy and his stomach hurt and the movement wasn’t helping, but he must have fallen asleep because the world went silent and John was swallowed darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful readers~ please enjoy this behemoth of a chapter!

Recon 2

John felt like shit. Shittier than shit. Shit-tastic. Shit-taculer. Shit... whatever else. He was feeling incredibly sick and wishing he was in bed because standing up made him dizzy. He was missing his rabbit and blanket that were stuffed into a shoe box in the back of his closet. He was hoping he could go to Mycroft and Greg’s and stay with them for a while. Because he was Little and he really did need all of those things. 

But he couldn’t have them.

Because it would make him too much of a burden. 

That’s what his dad had said—that no one would want a dumb baby Little. John had to learn to take care of himself, navigate the world as a neutral Class, and hide away anything that may give his secret away. He was in the Army, he was a trained doctor, he worked as a PI for Scotland yard—he’d done more in a few years than his dad had in his whole life. But it didn’t matter, because John would never be anything more than some dumb Little once everyone found out. He had to be strong. He had to be big. It was the only way he’d keep his life—his independence, respect, and renoun. He couldn’t risk all of that just because of his dumb biology!

When John cracked his eyes open, it was to a dark room and quiet humming as someone gently bobbed him up and down. John wasn’t sure where he was and his head was too foggy to catch on to much else, but he was sure Greg was the one holding him. He smelled really nice—like peppermint and all spice—and John had a hard tome lifting his head. 

“Hey, it’s alright there. Just get some sleep, hum?” Greg said softly, running a hand through John’s hair.

John closed his eyes and almost preened under the touch before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to be Little. Even if he was sick, that would just make him an even bigger problem. John whined as best he could, kicking his feet for good measure, but Greg just continued to sush him.

“I know you don’t feel good, but we’ve still got a bit before you can take anymore medicine.” Greg’s lips pressed against John’s head as he spoke, almost as if he wasn’t even talking to John. 

More medicine, John thought. Meaning they had already given him something and he just didn’t remember it. Stupid stick-muddled brain! He was already bothering people! John tried to kick, to say Greg needed to put him down right this instant and demand to be sent home, but his stomach twisted and he suddenly felt something burning in his throat. 

“Oh, poor boy.” Greg said, his movement paused as he wiped something across John’s face, taking whatever had just come out of his stomach with it. 

John let out a few sniffles, mortified that he was crying but unable to stop it. The stomach acid left a bad taste in his mouth he hated even more than being sick and he felt too tired to do anything about it! He couldn’t even squirm his way away from Greg if he’d tried his hardest, not in this state. But he needed to. He couldn’t stay and be a burden and have everyone hate him. He just couldn’t. Greg, Mycroft, and Sherlock where some of the very few friends John had and losing them would crush him just as much as Harry’s sudden change in attitude after his Classification had. He couldn’t do that again.

A door opened and pulled John from his memories and back into the room, soft light flooding in from outside. 

“How’s he doing?” Mycroft asked, taking a few steps in and softly closing the door behind him. The room was coated in black again, but now John could see a very faint light shining from a wall plug. 

“Not well. He’s been sleeping mostly, but he started fussing and then puked a few minutes ago. Nothing big, but I’m worried about his stomach.” Greg ran a hand through John’s hair again and this time, John just let him without any complaint. “How’s Sher?”

“Plopped him in front of a movie in the playroom and he was out light a light.” Mycroft chuckled, hand cupping the back of John’s head. “How did we lose control over all of this so quickly?”

Mycroft seemed almost tortured as he asked the question and it yanked on John’s gut. He was hurting people again, just like he knew he would. He needed to leave as soon as he possibly could.

“We shouldn’t have left things the way we did.” Greg said sadly, squeezing John a little tighter in his arms. 

Mycroft sighed and John could almost see Mycroft running a hand through his hair as he said, “No, we shouldn’t have.”

Greg’s grip loosened and John felt himself able to breathe in again. He had to make a plan to get out of here before he started to drop so he wasn’t relying on Greg and Mycroft. And he knew he was going to drop. He wasn’t ever really Little when he got sick before, but he’d come pretty damn close several times. The last thing he wanted after the last time he was with Greg and Mycroft was to be stuck in headspace again.

“Do you want me to take him so you can get some rest?” Mycroft asked.

John could feel Greg shake his head. “No, I don’t think I can let him go without going into some kind of freak out. All of my Caregiver instincts are on high alert.”

“Okay.” John felt as Mycroft leaned closer to Greg, placing a kiss on Greg’s cheek. “Let me know if you need anything.”

John must have fallen back asleep because the next thing he knew, he was waking up to a room bathed in early morning light. He blinked a few times before realizing his view was obstructed by some weird window between him and the rest of the window. John sat up, but the movement set his stomach turning again and suddenly had a lap full of stomach acid. 

The smell was putrid and the taste even more so. John gaged again as his stomach decided he hadn’t been through enough cruelty, but it was just dry heaving. He felt like he was about to start puking organs when a door opened from the other side of the room. 

John looked up as hot tears sprang from his eyes to see Greg rushing towards him. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Greg said, reaching over what ever the hell John was in and placing him on his hip, bobbing gently. “It’s okay, let it all out.”

John knew he should kick and scream to be put down, yell at Greg for trying to baby him, storm off towards Baker Street... But Greg was so warm and the soft and rhythmic pats on John’s back made him feel a lot better. His stomach gave up and John was left with a burn in his throat and hot tears down his face.

John could feel as Greg adjusted him and looked at a watch. “It’s time for some more medicine, anyway. We’ll take some and then try to eat something, okay?”

John felt a ball of anxiety build in his chest. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but Greg must have given him more medicine after he’d fallen asleep. The wait time on cold medicine was anywhere between four to six hours, which meant he must have been under Greg’s care for almost twelve hours. And John had almost no memory of any of it. 

It was only after John was sat down at the changing table and his shirt was being gently tugged from his head that he realized he was wearing a wet diaper and tears started pouring again. How was he in a diaper? When had he allowed that??? Well, that weekend he spent with Mycroft and Greg, they put him in a diaper at night cause the pull-up wasn’t the best for night-time accidents, but John didn’t HAVE accidents when he was big. He knew he wasn’t completely big right then, but he wasn’t wet-himself-Little, either. 

Right? 

Right???

John started kicking at Greg reaches for the tabs of the diaper, tears turning to sobs. He wasn’t Little. He wasn’t. He didn’t need a diaper change, he didn’t need to be babied, he was just fine on his own!

“John, love, I know you’re not feeling well, but we do not kick people.” Greg scolded as he stepped back and crossed his arms with a stern look on his face.

John’s legs dropped with a thunk to the table, sobs going mute. He was being annoying. Greg was going to hate him because John was being too bothersome. Of course he was. John didn’t know how to be anything but trouble—that’s what his dad had said. 

Greg sighed and set to work changing John and—to his mortification—putting him in another diaper. He was awake! He didn’t need a diaper! He could use the bathroom just fine! He was trying to say all of that, but the only thing that came out were pathetic sobs. Even John didn’t like himself right now—though, that wasn’t saying much. John pretty much always hated himself. 

Greg snagged a shirt or something from a nearby chair and pulled it over John’s head. John stopped crying momentarily to look at what he was being dressed in. The shirt wasn’t all that baby-ish, although it did have a little bunny head right about his heart. It was only when the shirt was pulled past his hips and between his legs that John realized it was a romper.

He kicked his leg and threw the opposite hip, getting him onto his side as he cried, but Greg’s hands were on him and had him back on his butt to snap the crotch in place. How could John allow such baby-isn treatment when he was nothing of the sort? He was an Army Doctor, a respected phycision, a detective, and—above all else—not. A. Little.

Greg lifted John off the changing table and bobbed him around a bit, which had John’s stomach twisting again. Luckily, nothing came up this time.

“Poor boy, let’s get you some more medicine, huh?” Greg said softly, walking out of whatever room they had been in. 

John looked up just in time to see Sherlock’s door just down the hall, and was caught in a moment of confusion, where the hell had he been if not in Sherlock’s room? And they were too far away for it to have been Mycroft and Greg’s. John tried to remember what the door had looked like, but he couldn’t recall anything. He’d been crying too hard.

Well, it didn’t matter anyway because John was being carried down the hallway to the upstairs bathroom he remembered from that weekend that seemed almost a lifetime ago. John was shifted around in Greg’s arms as the Caregiver rummaged through the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

“Mycroft,” Greg huffed, bouncing to lift John higher on his hip, “where did you put it?”

Greg’s hand was suddenly on John’s forehead, tisking as he pulled his hand away. “You’re still really hot, baby.”

Greg seemed lost in his worry for a moment as he stared into space, then shook himself a bit and walked back out of the bathroom. “Let’s see if Mycroft remembers where he put the fever reducer.”

John laid his head on Greg’s shoulder as he walked down the hall. Somehow, John felt even more exhausted than he had back in the alley. 

“Greg!” Sherlock screeched down the hall, followed by pounding footsteps. “How’s John-John? Is he okay? Is he still sick?”

“Sher,” Greg said, somehow sounding both amused and ungodly tired. “My and I told you to stay in the playroom unless we come to get you. We don’t want you catching whatever John-John’s got.”

“But you’re around him and you’re not sick.” Sherlock said stubbornly, crossing his arms.

John presses his face into Greg’s shoulder as anxiety built in his stomach. Was Greg going to get sick because of John? What if Greg did and hated John because he made him ill? John wouldn’t even be able to be mad because he’d understand. 

“Besides, John-John’s not really sick. He’s headspace sick. I can’t catch that.” Sherlock was clearly dropped completely, but his sass and stubbornness were all the same. 

What the hell was headspace sick?

“Sher...” Greg started before being cut off as Mycroft yelled down the hall.

“Sherlock, there you are! Don’t run off like that!”

John watched under heavy-lidded eyes as Mycroft dove his hands under Sherlock’s arms and pulled him to his hip. Sherlock let out a whine in protest, but Mycroft was having none of it.

“You need to take your antibiotics before breakfast or you’re gonna get sick, too.” Mycroft said with a time that was both understanding and firm. Mycroft looked up at Greg as he said, “Sorry, I know you’re trying to keep them apart, but he ran off.” 

Greg shook his head, “No worries. Sher, what do you mean John John’s headspace sick?”

Sherlock let out another whine as Mycroft adjusted highs so he could face Greg to answer. He let out a huff as he said, “He’s sick ‘cause he’s not dropped.”

John watched Greg and Mycroft share a look—the kind that had a whole conversation in the span of a single glance—before they both looked at John.

John withered under their gaze, squeezing his eyes closed and hiding his face. Why were they looking at him like that—like they were worried because they cared. People don’t care about John. They care about what he can do. They care about his usefulness. Once John wasn’t useful, he was a waste of space and resources. 

There was a pregnant pause before Mycroft said, “I’m going to take Sher back to the dinning room.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Greg said with a nod. “Oh, do you know where the fever reducer is?”

“I think you left it in John’s room.” Mycroft responded, waving as he walked away. 

“Oh, right,” Greg said with a forced chuckle, turning around and walking back towards the front steps.

When they got back to the room John had woken up in, he got a real look at it before Greg sat him down on the changing table, letting him sit there whilst he rummaged around. 

The room was painted a very faint blue—almost white—with little rabbits hopping around flowers at eye level when standing. Between two large windows sat a white crib, bars pulled down and blankets ruffled as if the occupant had been tossing during their sleep. A matching white dresser stood against the adjacent wall, a few pictures John wasn’t able to see sitting on the top. Next to it was a large white armchair, easily big enough to fit two people. It would have seemed too large for the room if not for the soft green quilt that was folded neatly and laid over the back—a matching one to what was in the crib. It was cute and cozy, perfect for a younger Little to be safe and comfortable. 

But there was no reason for it. Sherlock was too old for something like this, even at his Littlest. Besides, Mycroft didn’t seem to spare any expense with Sherlock, but John was sure even he would have found a second room a wasteful use of space. 

“Hey, John-John,” Greg said, suddenly in front of John with a small plastic cup full of purple goo held out. “Can you take this, please?”

John stared at the cup, confused for a moment. What was in the cup and why was John supposed to drink it?

“It’s just medicine, baby. It’ll settle your stomach.” Greg held the cup a little closer and John took it in a shaky hand.

John guessed he really didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, so he tipped his head up and the cup back, swallowing as the grape flavored medicine entered his mouth. It tasted gross but John got it all down and handed the cup back to Greg as more tears poured down his face.

“John-John, baby...” Greg stopped, taking a breath in as his face twisted into something John couldn’t name. It looked like a deep, hollow sorrow, but mixed with something else. “Are you Little right now?”

John shrunk back, chin tucked against his chest as he cried. No matter what he said, Greg was gonna be upset, so he chose to not say anything.

Greg huffed, something that bordered on frustration but was closer to worry. “Baby, you’ve gotta drop.”

“No!” John yelled, fat tears rolling down   
face as he shook his head. “Can’t!”

Greg was taken aback. “John-John, you’re safe here. You’ll feel a lot better if you drop.”

John clamped his eyes shut, shaking his head and flailing his arms to get Greg’s gentle and loving touch away from him. “No no no no no!”

“John, baby, please tell me what’s wrong.” Greg’s voice was gentle but begging. He seemed tortured and it made John feel even more like he shouldn’t drop. He’d just hurt Greg more!

“No!” John was kicking now, too, but Greg wasn’t having it. He lifted John up and onto his hip, bobbing around and pressing the Little’s head to his chest. 

John’s sobs were muffled, but he was also losing the fight to exhaustion. He’d been crying for a while and he was already feeling ill, all of these complicated emotions weren’t helping.

It felt like a long time passed between Greg picking him up and finally breaking the silence as John started to nod back off. “Baby, what are you so scared of?”

“gon’ hate me,” John said in a pathetically small voice that cracked at the end, somehow springing more tears from his eyes. 

And it was true. No one wanted someone around that wasn’t useful and too much work. Greg was just being nice because John was sick, but he would surely go back to ignoring John like he had after that weekend because John was just too much of a bother. John hadn’t even been sick that weekend, he could still do almost everything on his own—to an extent. How long would Greg and Mycroft ignore him this time, with him being three times the trouble?

“Hate you?” Greg let out a forced laugh, as if that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “How could anyone hate you? You’re so kind and smart, and you always try your hardest in everything. You’re cute and cuddly, and exactly what I need after almost a month without either of my boys.”

John looked at Greg as if he grown a second head. “But... ignored me?” The words were terribly slurred between the exhaustion and his slipping headspace, but Greg seemed to understand.

His face twisted in confusion for a moment before it settled out a regretful sorrow. “Oh, baby, no. No. We weren’t ignoring you. We thought... we thought you just needed space to think.”

Greg squeezed John in his arms in the tightest hug John had ever gotten. “Baby, My and I love you and Sherlock more than anything. I never would have left you alone if I had known what you were thinking.”

John hiccuped, clinging onto Greg as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

“You’re always safe here, you’re always welcome here, this is your home now, too.” Greg said softly. “I know you don’t feel very sick and I promise you with all my heart that I will do the best I can to help, but you’ve gotta let go for a bit.”

John shook his head, more sobs coming as he said, “No! Gon’ get stuck ‘gain!”

“Hey, hey, shuu,” Greg hushed, bobbing on the balls of his feet. “We’ll take care of you, no matter what. I promise, you’ll feel so much better if you let yourself rest for a little bit.”

John let out a mix of a screech and a grunt, grabbing onto his hair with balled fists and squeezing his head. It hurt, but his brain didn’t know what else to do. Fighting off his headspace was becoming a losing battle, but years and years of fear kept him from letting go peacefully. Greg wrapped his arms all the way around John and hugged him so tight, John felt like he couldn’t breath.

“You’re safe, John. You’re home and you’re safe.” Greg whispered so softly, John almost couldn’t hear it.

But he did, and something in him broke. Maybe it was John’s heart, maybe it was a hard line drawn in the asphalt, but it almost certainly felt like a wall so high and old that it’s fall shattered the very fabric of John’s mind. 

He dropped.

It wasn’t like that first night he’d spent with Mycroft and Greg where he almost panic dropped, of that weekend when he was eased in. It felt more sudden, but somehow just as soft. It was unlike anything John had ever felt before, although may be best explained as falling in your sleep. 

The drop was terrifying, but when you woke and realized you were in your soft bed and safe from danger the whole time, the fear instantly faded to comfort and it was easy to fall back asleep. 

John’s tears didn’t instantly stop, but they faded as he started to drift to sleep and he could feel as Greg let out a breathe he seemed to have Ben holding for a very long time. Greg’s arms relaxed and John didn’t feel so crushed, but he was warm and clean and comfortable and that was good enough to sleep to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, this took forever to write. I feel like every character I write always ends up a little bit autistic and I’m not sure how I feel about that, but it is what it is. 
> 
> Do you all feel like it was pretty close to how cannon John would react? I’m still unsure, but at least it’s written and we can get to the fluff of our story I’m the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, I’m not dead and no, this story is not abandoned. Pls enjoy a chapter from Little Sher’s POV!

Recon 3

Sherlock sighed as he stared at the plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. What a boring food to start a day with. 

“Sherlock, stop glaring at your food.” Mycroft said, snapping the news paper he held as he changed the page.

Sherlock let out a groan. “But My—“

“No whining,” Mycroft scorned. “You can play when you finish your plate.”

Sherlock’s lip twisted in disgust. “I’m not hungry.”

Mycroft sighed, setting down his paper and sitting forward in his chair. “Sher, you need to eat or your medicine’s going to upset your stomach.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip stuck out as he pouted and shoved food around his plate with his fork. “Wanna play with John-John.”

Mycroft’s face became soft, almost empathetic. “I know you do, but John-John’s not feeling well and he needs time before he’ll be ready to play.”

Sherlock frumphed and plopped his head into his crossed arms on the table. Mycroft sighed but made no comment as he picked up his paper and sat back in his chair.

They sat like that until Greg came into the room a few minutes later, huffing as he plopped into a seat. 

Mycroft sat down his paper and picked up his tea cup as he asked, “What happened.”

Greg let out a long breath as he sat forward, running a hand through his hair as he said, “John’s dropped, so there’s that.”

Mycroft nodded, taking a sip. “That should help things along.”

Greg nodded, sitting back. “Hopefully.”

Sherlock sat up. “May I be excused?”

Mycroft looked at him with one eye brow raised, tea cup still at his lips. 

Sherlock tried not to flinch, knowing Mycroft knew he was up to something. But Sherlock was mischievous by nature and hopped that would cover his actual intentions. 

Luckily, it seemed to have worked as Mycroft simply nodded and said, “three more bites of your eggs and you may be excused.”

Normally, Sherlock would fight the negotiation down, but he didn’t want to push his luck too much. Besides, Mycroft had started at three when he normally started at five, so he knew Sherlock wasn’t being defiant about breakfast just to be a pain—he genuinely wasn’t very hungry and would much rather be doing something other than eating. Sherlock quickly shoved two bites of egg and a shred of his toast in his mouth, chewing quickly before looking up to Mycroft for approval. When My gave him a subtle nod, Sherlock smiled and took off from the table, running down the corridor and to the play room.

Sherlock rummaged around a few of the shelves before finding the small bag he had shoved behind John’s farm house the day before. Maybe he didn’t really need to hide the contents of the bag, but he was sure he’d get scorned for going through John’s things. But how could he not! This was John’s rabbit and blanket, two of the things he loved most in the world—Sherlock couldn’t let John drop without these beloved items when it was fully within his power to help! 

Sherlock stuck his head out into the hallway, glancing either way to ensure Mycroft and Greg weren’t around before making a mad dash for the back steps. John’s new room was right by Sherlock’s at the top of the front steps, but he was much less likely to get caught if he took the long way around and walked fast enough. Mycroft would be held up in his office for most of the day and Greg had boring adult stuff to do, so Sherlock wasn’t too worried. 

Sherlock walked as quietly as he could up the steps, but he had never been known for being particularly graceful. He turned down the hall and tried to steady his breathing with every step, finally reaching the front of the house what seemed like a million years later. Sherlock poked his head around the corner and, when he saw the coast was clear, ran for John’s door. He closed the door as quietly as he could behind him before turning around to get a real look at John’s room. Mycroft and Greg has been very clear that Sherlock was to leave the room alone, and so he did. Until now, at least.

It was just slightly smaller than Sherlock’s room, but it was hardly noticeable due to the scarcity of items within the room. Where Sherlock’s room had his bed and bookshelves and toy boxes, John’s was a rather simplistic changing table, dresser, and rocking chair. And the crib, which Greg had debated over with Mycroft for weeks—Greg didn’t want to push too much too fast and My didn’t want to give John any chance to hurt himself. Of course, Mycroft disguised it behind finial reasons—“I’m not buying him two beds when we can just get the right one first.”—but everyone knew that was hogwash. Mycroft considered John family, and that meant Mycroft was ready to do whatever it too to keep John happy and healthy. It wasn’t so much a Dom-Class-thing as a Mycroft-thing. Sure, Mycroft gave off the I-am-the-British-Government vibe really well, but he was really just a big old softie, especially when it came to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock placed the bag on the floor and sat next to it as he dug his fingers into the plastic and tore open a hole. He made the hole wider, then pulled out John’s rabbit and blanket with a rather smug smile on his face. Both items looked just fine and that meant Sherlock had succeeded.

Just as Sherlock was taking a step towards John, the bedroom door swung open and Greg stepped inside.

“Sherlock!” Greg said, exasperated.

Sherlock cringed, turning around on the ball of one foot to in time to see Greg cross his arms.

“And what do you think you’re doing up here?” Greg asked sternly, keeping his voice low.

Sherlock wracked his brain for anything to say, but was too overcome with fear that he couldn’t think of a single thing. For someone who was so normally quick on his feet, being caught off guard like this had hot tears rushing to his eyes.

“I—I was just—“ Sherlock swallowed at a large lump forming in his throat, “John-John—“

“You were told to leave John-John alone, young man.” Greg’s voice was the hardest Sherlock had ever heard it. “Out, now.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, but he was too slow. Greg grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the room, all but slamming the door closed as they stood in the hallway. 

“You’re to go to your room and sit on your bed in silence. You are not to move from that spot until Mycroft or I come get you. Understood?” 

Sherlock took off for his room, yanking his door open and running inside. He was careful not to slam the door, no matter how badly he wanted to, and fell face-first onto his bed. All he was trying to do was help and Greg was being so mean! He didn’t even understand why, even if Sherlock had broken a few rules! It’s not like he’d gotten anyone hurt!

Sherlock sat up as he heard the door open, quickly wiping at his face before looking up and meeting Mycroft’s eyes.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed and closed the door, then sat down next to Sherlock on the bed. “I know John-John’s outburst and subsequent illness is throwing off our usual schedule, but your behavior is unacceptable. You cannot disobey Greg and me like this. What if we’d gone looking for you and thought you had gone missing? How would we know the difference between you being disobedient and in trouble?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, fiddling with the seam of his trousers. He sniffled and said, “Was just tryin’ to help.”

“Ignoring us and running around is not helping anyone, Sherlock.” Mycroft said sternly. “Especially when both of you are ill.”

“Not ill.” Sherlock said, knowing he sounded pathetic. 

“Incapacitated, then.” Mycroft corrected. “Either way, this is unacceptable and I expected more from you.”

Sherlock physically flinched, tears falling more rapidly and breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t meant to cause any problems, but that seemed to be all he did. 

“A hundred lines of, ‘I will listen to Mycroft and Greg.’ and then a nap, understood?” Mycroft said, standing up.

Sherlock nodded his head and took the hand Mycroft held out for him. Sherlock suddenly felt a lot Littler than he normally did as he stood up and followed Mycroft down the stairs and back to the playroom. It was hard to walk and Sherlock thought for sure he might fall over if given half a chance. Luckily, Mycroft’s grip kept him up the whole tour and Sherlock was gently sat in a chair at the reading table.

Mycroft cleared away some of the books and grabbed for some notebook paper and a pen. He paused for a moment before giving them to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, are you feeling Little-Little?” Mycroft asked. He set the paper and pen down just out of Sherlock’s reach and leaned down to pull at a finger Sherlock hadn’t even realized was in his mouth.

Sherlock glared at the traitorous digit but made no move to answer Mycroft’s question. 

Mycroft sighed. “We should have foreseen this. Come on, let’s get to the bathroom and then we can do our lines.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with the bathroom, but he was already in enough trouble and decided to not fight My on it. When Mycroft pulled a pull-up out from under the sink, though, Sherlock had to put his foot down.

“No!”

“Sher, you’re much too young to not be in something.” Mycroft said. “What if you have an accident.”

“Won’t!” Which even Sherlock knew was a bold lie, but what else was he going to do? He wasn’t a baby and only babies like John-John wore diapers! 

“Sher—“

“Not a baby!”

“I never said you are! Even big boys have accidents, that’s why we have big boy pants. You’ve worn them loads before.”

Mycroft may have had a point, but Sherlock didn’t like it any better. 

“How about this, you let me put you in one of these and I’ll ask Greg to make fish and chips for dinner?” Mycroft offered. 

Normally, Mycroft didn’t barter which meant he was either in a forgiving mood or felt bad for Sherlock. After getting shot and dropping lower than normal, Sherlock was willing to bet on the latter. He debated for a moment before nodding his head in agreement. Fish and chips for a pull-up was one hell of a trade off, but maybe John-John would be able to eat some. John-John loved fish and chips.

Ten minutes later saw Sherlock sitting in the playroom across from Mycrfot, dressed in a pull-up with pacifier in-mouth as he worked on his lines. The pacifier was needed after Sherlock stuck the pen in his mouth and Mycroft got afraid he’d get himself sick. 

But the end of his lines, a nap wasn’t seeming like such a punishment because Sherlock was half asleep at the table. 

Mycrfot lifted him gently and said, “Good boy, all is forgiven. That’s a good boy. Now get some rest, yeah?”

Normally, Sherlock would fight all naps tooth-and-nail, but right then, he was enjoying Mycroft’s attention and warmth too much to put up a fit. His eyes fluttered closed and he fell into a soft sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Anything in particular you wanna see? Just let me know in the comments! ❤️❤️❤️


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